They protected their bodies, too, with heavy glinting shields fashioned from something Buru Buru could not divine. But even the best of them lacked his own people’s skills, especially with the spear, which was shorter than the newcomers’. Worse, they had dared to take and keep many of the tribe’s boomerangs, which only the black man had the right to carry. This and other punishable sins, such as the desecration of a sacred site for their place of worship, had called down the wrath of the Great Ancestors, whose power was far beyond that of the debbil-debbil’s gods.
The Great Ancestors governed the land and everything on it: man, animals, vegetation. The Great Ancestors owned the bright yellow gibber stones the newcomers hunted so avidly along the mighty river’s banks, even risking the spirit crocodiles who crushed many for their transgression between powerful jaws. Still, the invaders courted such death. And for what? To make their pretty ornaments? Their little figures? These yellow stones washed down by the yearly floodwaters had been known to Buru Buru’s people since the beginning of time. They saw little value in them, except perhaps for the children, who liked to make them skip across the stream, watching the bright pebbles skim the waters before sinking beneath them. The black people knew the great source of these riverine fragments. The mother lode was buried in sacred rock walls, veins of it like jagged lightning on the dark stone. Much as the newcomers sought this sacred place, they would never find it. Let them continue to wash the stones of river sand in their vessels. They could never obtain the bright ribbons embedded in the sacred rocks.
But the worst offense of all, and for which the invaders had been condemned to die, was the bringing of sickness to Buru Buru’s people. Before the invaders arrived, diseases had been few among the tribes; now there were many, many deaths. The Great Ancestors had shown their wrath in the night skies. This was the time. As an important ritual leader, Buru Buru had sat in council. Punishment by death except in extreme cases, like violations of sacred law, was itself a terrible offense. But because of the great grief and chaos the debbil-debbils had caused, the council had spoken.
He, Buru Buru, who could move like a shadow, had been instructed to scout out the camp, to choose the exact moment. Deliberate killing would come hard to his men. Physical violence was not an accepted code of behavior. But the black man would be merciful. The end would come quickly and without warning. Under the cloak of night, the potent drink the copper skins used in their ceremonies would be laced with the juice of certain magic berries collected by the women of Buru Buru’s tribe. The juice did not kill but induced a strange state where a man could see visions or enter a trance during which he would be rendered incapable of retaliation. Then the fighting men would move into the enemy camp. Great in number, the whole of Buru Buru’s clan had been called in from the mountain rain forests, the coastal streams, the offshore islands, all along the blue sea with its wondrous beauty. Great hunters, all of them, with intimate knowledge of the land and its creatures. His chest heaving, Buru Buru climbed up onto the bank at the very moment the great crocodile on the flood plane drove its massive claws into the sand, propelling itself down a smooth slide into the river, where it sank below the sparkling surface amidst a silver spray of water. Buru Buru understood its significance. The Great Spirit inside the crocodile would join forces with the clans to drive the invader out.
CHAPTER ONE
BY THE TIME Rosie reached Finnigans, the bar where she’d arranged to meet Dr. Graeme Marley, distinguished archaeologist from the Sydney Museum, she was already twenty minutes late. He wouldn’t like that, the doctor, although she knew from experience that he was the sort of man who liked to make other people wait. But her lateness couldn’t be helped. Getting through the late-Friday-afternoon traffic had almost wrecked her, held up as she’d been by her interview with a visiting film star who had a well-deserved reputation for minor rages if the questions didn’t go right. Rosie knew how to get the questions right. The meeting had been so successful it had lasted right through a late lunch and well into the afternoon, with Rosie, at least, sticking to mineral water.
Eliciting hitherto undivulged but real information from the famous was her forte. Something that had won her a swag of awards and her own byline with the Herald. She had also done her stint in several war zones, using her skills to inform people at home of the terrible suffering that went on in infinitely less-fortunate parts of the world. The rape and murder of the innocents. Stints like that tore off every layer of skin and caused sweat-soaked nightmares, but she still kept going back. A warrior. Or so she liked to think.
A few journalists she knew were ranged around the bar, exchanging gossip and news, nursing their cold beers while they held vigorous postmortems on yesterday’s headlines and the quality of reportage. They waved her over. Rosie flashed her high-wattage smile, indicating with a little pantomime of her fingers that she was meeting someone else. All of them to a man, and every other male in range, regardless of whether he was with a female companion or not, paused to take her in.
The verdict was unanimous. Rosie Summers was all Woman. She was also a great “bloke,” a respected member of a tough profession. At five-nine she was a bit tall for a woman but had a beautiful willow-slim body. A cloud of naturally curly marmalade hair burst like fireworks around her face; a scattering of marmalade freckles dotted her bone-china skin. In days gone by, Rosie Summers might have been considered plain, all cheekbones, planes and angles, but the sum total fit right into the modern idiom. She had a lovely mouth to balance the high-bridged aristocratic nose and the wide uncompromising jaw, good arching brows, but it was the eyes that got you. Moss-green, they were mesmerizing enough to dive into, full of sparkling intelligence, understanding and humor. She wore her unconventional clothes haphazardly, a bit of this and a bit of that, combinations of unexpected colors and fabrics—like now, with her orange silk shirt, brilliantly patterned scarf, ultra-skinny purple jeans guaranteeing attention to her long, long legs and big burgundy leather bag slung over her shoulder. Yet the whole effect was one of great dash. All in all, Rosie Summers added up to dazzle if you liked her, a little too much of a challenge if you didn’t.
While others speculated about her, Rosie sailed on. It took her a moment to locate Marley, which was odd. He was a man who lived to be seen. Maybe he was hiding from the plebs, she thought, tucked as he was into a banquette at the far end of the room. His heavy handsome head was bent and he was staring into his glass, apparently transfixed by what was in it. He hadn’t aged a minute since she’d last seen him. In what, two years? A brilliant academic, just as brilliant in the field, he had at first refused to be interviewed by her after his important discovery and dating of the Winjarra cave paintings in Arnhem Land in the Northern Territory. From what Rosie could gather, Dr. Marley considered women the very worst interviewers. According to him, they never stuck to the facts. She learned also that he’d read one of her pieces, an interview with a leading politician, and thought it quite dangerous. In his view, politicians had to maintain a facade, not let journalists take the scissors to them. Only when they actually met did Marley turn into “an old sweetheart,” as Rosie later phrased it satirically to her boss. The article, a good one, with Marley saying far more about himself than he’d ever intended, appeared in a national publication and was so well received it spawned a number of television appearances for the doctor, plus a few big donations from the seriously wealthy.
Rosie had met Marley’s wife, surprised that Mrs. Marley had so few obvious attractions when her husband was so striking. Helen was a quiet, almost weary youngish woman who let her husband do all the talking. Rosie figured Helen found it a lot easier that way. The odd time Mrs. Marley had opened her mouth, offering something that Rosie recalled always had a point to it, Marley had turned on her with a tight smile that quickly squashed further intelligent comment. Strangely enough, he had appeared very taken with Rosie, who was nothing if not forthright and highly articulate to boot.
“Dr. Marley?” Rosie approached the banquette. Marley didn’t look up. “Rosie Summers,” she said, wondering not for the first time if Marley did everything for effect. Either that or he’d developed a hearing problem.
But his surprise, as it turned out, was quite genuine. “Roslyn!” He tried
